


various Bastille Day ficlets

by janie_tangerine



Category: Bastille Day (2016)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Flirting, Idiots in Love, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Slash, Spies & Secret Agents, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 02:53:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8269930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: in which the author stores the Briar/Mason tumblr prompts she couldn't find a title for or which are shorter than her average. Might be updated in the future if I get more that I don't feel like reposting separately. for now we have the following:1) Michael goes with Briar to Karen's funeral;2) Briar finds it really hot when Michael steals things from other people;3) a mission goes south, Michael goes in a funk, Briar's actually not an asshole about it.Have fun. :D





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> as stated, these were either too short for proper posting or I COULDN'T FIND THEM A TITLE so I decided to stick them all in the same place also so that I stop spamming y'all. Proper summaries and the likes are in each chapter. :D
> 
> for part one: the original requester was an anon on tumblr wanting _Sean goes to Karen's funeral, Michael comes along to comfort him, despite of his "I'm fine" insistence._ Given the subject this one's pretty much pre-slash and the likes with relatively little UST at least for these two but hey I tried.

The funeral is a small affair.

For that matter, it’s a _placeholder_ funeral – the real one is going to be in the States, but since most of Karen’s colleagues are here they figured they’d have some kind of service before sending her off to the motherland.

He hasn’t advertised that he’d come. Briar knows that no one who actually knows how things went would blame him for her death, but a lot of people in the office _don’t_ know how it went, so he figured he wouldn’t boast it to the heavens or anything.

On top of that, given that Karen was agnostic, it’s not even a church – it’s held in HQ’s conference room, which is admittedly sad, but what can he do. He arrives ten minutes before service is supposed to start and he sits in the last free row – as he had imagined, most people send him looks that definitely do _not_ border on friendly the moment he walks in.

_I tried my best_ , he wants to say.

He doesn’t and takes his seat, barely bothering with taking off the coat. No one who comes in after goes to sit next to him, not that he’s surprised. Hell, if _he_ had been in her place, she’d have been the only one showing up. Maybe _Tom_ would have come out of support, probably, but that’d have been it.

Which is probably why he _hates_ that she’s dead – she was a good agent, she definitely did not deserve to go in such a stupid way and she’d have come for his damned funeral, attending hers is the least he can do.

Even if he has to admit to himself that he could do without all the hostile looks, he feels guilty about how things went _already_ , damn it –

And then just when Tom stands up and heads for the stage, _someone_ gets in from the door in the back – Briar only notices because he’s sitting near it, but no one else even turns.

That someone goes sitting right next to him, which is weird, but –

Briar turns and looks at them.

“What the _hell_ are you doing here?” He hisses. “This is a _private_ function.”

Mason sends him a nonplussed look, not taking off his jacket.

“Well, I _do_ have a badge, don’t I?” He whispers, showing the temporary CIA entrance slip that he’s been given since HQ decided he could be taken on trial. “Now how about you behave like a civilized person and pay attention?”

As far as funerals go, it’s – well. Could have been sadder, Briar thinks. Tom speaks at length, her other usual partners come up and say a few words, a few people from the French police she was in good relations with also do come up on stage, the Joan Baez greatest hits plays while people go up to pay their respects – she was Karen’s favorite singer – and most people leave flowers on the coffin. He’s been to more depressing funerals.

He _doesn’t_ go up on stage.

He could have, but when Tom asks if anyone else would like to he stays put, he doesn’t think it’d be welcomed and he wouldn’t even know what to say anyway, and he doesn’t know why the hell Mason casually puts a hand on his arm _then_ , but he’s too surprised and out of it to tell him to lay it off, and so he waits for Tom to finish his eulogies and for everyone else to leave their flowers before he sighs, grabs the small forget-me-nots bouquet he bought at the florist round the corner and goes to do the same.

Mason doesn’t go with – why would he, he didn’t even _know_ her, fuck’s sake – but he doesn’t even leave. When Briar decides he’s stood glaring at the American flag laid on the coffin enough – it’s not like he can stare her back to life now, can he? – he heads for the door and Mason is right next to him _again_.

What.

He waits until they’re far enough from the room, then he stops.

“How did you even get in?”

“You know, in my line of work you had to be able to sweet talk people a bit. I just asked around. Most people reply, if asking nicely. And anyway, I was just asking where _you_ were, and they told me you most probably would be at agent Dacre’s funeral, and I mean, it didn’t take much to put two and two together.”

Fine, kid’s resourceful. There’s a reason why Briar had to admit to himself he had _potential_.

“Okay, and? I mean, you didn’t even know who she was until now, why would you even show up?”

Mason rolls his eyes and takes in a deep breath. “ _No_ , but from what I gathered she was the one reason you’re not currently benched, it looked like she was your friend or _something_ as unbelievable as it might seem, and since I doubt you have that many and she’s _dead_ I figured I might show up because I know _you_. Fuck’s sake, I’m not completely uncivilized.”

Briar was about to tell him to just leave him alone on principle, but then he hears that and –

_Sorry_?

“What?”

“Come on, you want to make people think you can’t give two fucks about anything except your work and you’re messed up, but if you tell me that you were totally fine being there on your own with the entire room glaring daggers at you be my guest.”

He’s about to tell Mason that yes, he was totally fine, and then –

Then he tries to but he can’t. He opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again, and he still says nothing as Mason sends him another look which is – well, he looks concerned, mostly, and Briar thinks of how badly he had taken it when he found out he lied to his face a week ago. And now he’s gone to Karen’s funeral to keep _him_ company or something when he owed her nothing and she’d have probably handed him over to the French police without blinking rather than putting him in protective custody or anything, which – well, it was a reasonable choice and the one anyone who could do their job would have done, and Mason doesn’t know that (and he never will if Briar has any saying in it, it’s probably the last thing he needs), but still, the only thing Briar can think is that… he had assumed that Mason could be a decent person if you dug very deeply when first assessing the kid, but now he’s starting to think that he was wrong and you might not have to dig _that_ deep in order to bring that out.

Fuck, now he’s thinking he _could_ have been less of a piece of shit to him – maybe _someone else_ might have gone to _his_ funeral even if they had known each other for two damned days at most.

“Maybe you’re not wrong.”

“Sorry, did you just –”

“I said _maybe_ you’re not completely off the mark. _So_?”

Shit, Briar thinks as Mason looks up at him again, eyes that big and that _blue_ should be illegal, especially when they’re sending you sympathetic glances.

“So I know a few good bars around here. If you want to get a couple of drinks and, I dunno, talk about your friend or _whatever_ I had no plans for the rest of the day.”

Briar should really, _really_ say no. If they get _friendly_ for real things might get even more complicated, but –

But.

But maybe he doesn’t want to say no.

“Fine.”

He adds nothing, and Mason looks like he’s going to press for a moment, but then he puts a hand on Briar’s arm and steers him towards the elevator. “Good. I’m not even going to bring you someplace I had _business_ in.”

“How thoughtful of you,” Briar replies, but to his own horror he sounds more fond than anything else.

He thinks Karen would find it hilarious, though, and – well. There’s worse things that could have happened, he supposes, and follows Mason, figuring that for once he can just let someone else take the reins for the time it takes him to gain back his footing.

 

End.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The fact that Briar actually likes watching Mason steal things when he fucking works for the CIA is nothing that can be rationalized, therefore there’s something wrong with him. Massively fucking wrong with him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this case the tumblr anon wanted _Sean observing Michael while he's pick-pocketing. (As in, some scene like the one in the bar)_. This is really... THAT basically. With more of these two being absolute lovable assholes to each other.

It shouldn’t be surprising that when Sean Briar thinks, for the first time in his life, _there’s something really fucking wrong with me_ and entirely means it, it’s Mason’s fault.

He’s definitely _not_ ever going to admit that out loud to the kid. Fuck no. He doesn’t need to know that he’s made him admit to himself a thing that a fair number of psychologists at the agency haven’t for  _years_.

Then again, everything else could be rationalized.

The fact that Briar _actually likes watching Mason steal things_ when he  _fucking works for the CIA_ is nothing that can be rationalized,  _therefore_ there’s something wrong with him. Massively fucking wrong with him.

He should _not_ be getting bothered watching _this_ , even if technically it’s not a crime – not when Mason’s doing that _on the job_ anyway.

The thing is – he wasn’t lying when he said he was _the best_ around, at least in Paris. Briar had thought that the kid was exaggerating, that he was good but not _that_ good, and – right, then he stole his damned money, but that wasn’t the point.

He tries to be subtle as he looks at the door of the seedy pub he’s been sitting in for the last fifteen minutes – they’re trailing some son of a bitch from fucking New Mexico who is, at least according to their intel, selling weapons illegally to terrorists through some French organization. Or at least, they have nothing on the guy in question, but they did track down some other poor bastard who works for him who’s supposed to _deliver a message_ at Marseille’s docks and who always drinks here after his shift is over.

Briar had figured that if they had _the actual message_ it’d have been easier work, and maybe it wasn’t necessary because they could just trail the guy, after all.

Right. Fine. He decided that they needed the message first just so he could put Michael’s skills to use, and he’s almost positive that Michael _knows_ he took that decision also because then he could – watch him in action, damn it.

Given how he smirked when Briar told him the plan, he probably should scratch that _almost_ and say that he’s positive.

Anyway.

The door opens.

The person coming in doesn’t take off their cap or their slightly oversized gray coat, but Briar can see a flash of red hair from under the cap, not that he needs to see Michael in the face to recognize him. He glances around the pub, then eyes their mark, who’s sitting at a small table in the corner opposite Briar’s.

Michael goes to the bar, orders a beer, pays for it, takes a sip and goes to sit at the table next to their mark’s. He drinks, checks his cellphone, takes another sip, and to anyone he’d be minding his business, but Briar can see that he’s eyeing the other guy while he pretends to go about the rest.

Their mark finishes his whiskey and slams the glass on the table – he looks as if he’s about to leave. Michael takes another sip from his bottle, then brings his phone up to his ear as if he’s about to make a call and stands up at exactly the same time as the other guy.

Which of course results in the two of them crashing against each other and his beer spilling on the guy’s shirt.

“Oh, je suis desolé,” he starts, and Briar takes a drink from his own glass of brandy before someone notices that he’s _staring_ , and not subtly at all. Michael keeps on talking in French to the guy and grabs a handkerchief from his pocket, pressing it to the stain on the guy’s shirt, and –

Thing is, the guy is obviously eyeing the stain. He’s _not_ watching Michael’s other hand, whose fingers are skimming the inside pocket of his jacket first and the one on the outside later.

“Attendez,” Michael keeps on when the guy says something along the lines of _it doesn’t matter, don’t sweat it_ – he moves the kerchief to his other hand, pressing it against the lower part of the stain, and the other one searches the other side of the jacket – he can see Michael pocketing something himself in a split second before he grabs the lapels and tugs the jacket upwards, putting it back on the man’s shoulders and apologizing profusely all over again.

The guy just waves him off, buttons up the jacket and heads out of the bar.

Michael grins to himself and sits back down to finish his beer looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world and Briar takes a long, deep breath before standing out and leaving the bar as well – they should meet in ten minutes behind the corner, and fuck but he _will_ resist the temptation to go into the bathroom and jerk off, because damn but that was _smooth_ , and it’s nothing he doesn’t know himself, but  _seeing it happen_ -

Briar has a fucking problem.

A problem named Michael Mason, but fuck, they’re _working_.

He’s absolutely _not_ going to let that affect him, all right? Damn it.

He looks at his watch. It shouldn’t be long before –

“There you go,” Michael says, sounding _way_ too smug for his own good and moving up to his side, before rummaging in his pocket and taking out a small envelope, another folded piece of paper and –

“Why the hell did you steal his _wallet_?”

Michael sends him an entirely unimpressed look. “Because if _just_ the envelope and the likes disappeared he’d know someone is after the information he has, if you steal _everything_ then he’ll assume that whoever it was they just took everything without checking if it was valuable.”

… which is a fair point.

“Fine. Don’t even think about stealing the money out of it.”

“You need to stop ruining the fun all the time,” Michael sighs, but then drops the wallet into Briar’s hands along with everything else. “So, enjoyed the show?”

“The hell are you talking about?”

“Come on, one could feel you staring. You can admit it, it’s not like anyone would believe me if I told them.”

“Shut up and let’s go, we have to crash their meeting.”

“Right, right, and you haven’t denied that yet.”

“I didn’t deny _what_?”

“That you enjoyed the show.”

“Oh, for – get into the car already, won’t you?”

Michael does, with the face of someone who’s _not_ going to let this go for a long time.

Thing is, Briar thinks to himself with a certain resignation, he probably has a point or ten.

And _he_ has a fucking problem.

Too bad that he can’t see himself doing anything about it now or at any point in the near future.

 

End.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You aren’t thinking of cutting and running now just because that mission went south, are you?”_
> 
> _Mason’s head snaps upwards and he opens his mouth, then he looks left and then looks back at him –_
> 
> _“Don’t even try to say what you had been about to say. You always look left when you lie.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one was for an anon who wanted _Sean didn't really dwell much on the "He's always running away from something, mostly himself" line Michael's mother used to describe her son. Now, though, looking at the way Michael is staring darkly at the wine after a mission gone south, he can't help but think about it_. Sorry this is still pre-slash and sorta angstier than the usual shit I write for this fandom but at some point I had to go there xD

Briar hasn’t thought for a long time about what info Tom had dumped on him the first time they discussed Mason – he doesn’t like to think about _his own_ psych evaluation, sure as hell he’d rather not think about anyone else’s.

Never mind that he hasn’t had many reasons to think about it lately anyway.

And thing is, now he’s not even thinking about the damned evaluation.

Now he’s thinking about _something else_ Tom had said.

Well, he was reporting what Mason’s mother had said. What was it?  _He’s always running away from something. Mostly himself_.

That had made perfect sense, in the beginning. Then – well, as stated, Briar has hardly gone and thought about that specific matter in depth, never mind that since he agreed to be the kid’s handler against all of his bloody instincts he’s had to admit that he’s not half bad at the job and it’s not as if he’s ever given Briar the impression he might cut and run.

Then again, it’s been six months. Until now, everything has gone fairly well as far as the job went.

Until now. Because the mission they wrapped up today was a clusterfuck – admittedly, it wasn’t even their fault. If only HQ had _talked_ to Interpol and warned that _they_ also were on the case they wouldn’t have ended up shooting at _them_ rather than at their common targets, since everyone also was undercover.

Eventually, they _did_ catch the fucking weapon smugglers. Well, _some_ of them – half managed to run, the half they got was made of small fish, there’s been three casualties because the idiots at Interpol who ended up handling that case had an easier trigger finger than Briar’s ever had, and it’s _not_ a compliment (he knows that _he_ might have a problem with it – it’s on his evaluation, isn’t it?) and HQ has had everyone’s hide, but it could have gone worse.

Also, it’s a given that at some point you’ll have to run into failure – it’s job hazards.

Anyway. The point is that after HQ properly had their hide, he told Mason that they should just get a drink and forget it. Mason hadn’t even tried to tease him about it, which already was _not_ how the kid operates, and now they’re sitting down at the nearest bar they could find. Briar’s at his second beer bottle, Mason has barely drunk half of his glass of wine and he’s staring down at it murderously, and he looks like he’s in some kind of horrid inner turmoil –

And that’s when Briar thinks of _that_ little sentence.

He clears his throat. “You aren’t thinking of cutting and running _now_ just because that mission went south, are you?”

Mason’s head snaps upwards and he opens his mouth, then he looks left and then looks back at him –

“Don’t even try to say what you had been about to say. You always look left when you lie.”

“Fuck.” Mason drinks some more wine, but it’s obvious he’s not enjoying it.

“So you _were_ thinking about it.”

“Well, if I can’t get it right in something _this_ straightforward then –”

Oh, _no_ , so that’s what it is about.

Fuck’s sake, Briar’s _not_ the kind of guy who was born to give pep talks to kids with issues when it comes to how adequate they are to any job in existence, but he figures he’s going to have to do it anyway.

“First, that wasn’t just _you_. I mean, _everyone_ fucked up, HQ first and foremost along with damn Interpol, and then we all followed up on it, but we were operating on the wrong information and so on, it’s hardly _your_ fault. Second, _it happens_. This won’t be the last time you fuck a mission up – you just have to handle collateral damage. Third, the casualties are on that bastard in Interpol who thinks that his middle name is John and his surname’s Wayne, _you_ couldn’t have done anything about that and this entire clusterfuck does _not_ mean that you can’t do your job. Fine?”

Mason just _stares_ at him. “ _Maybe_ , but it’s – not that easy?”

“The first time, maybe. The second, it’s easier. The third, more. By the fifth, you either learn to rationalize it or you’re out, but for what it’s worth, I don’t think that you’re the kind who should be out.”

“You say so – wait, what, did you just say?”

“I just said that now you finish that wine, order another if you feel like it, then you go and sleep this off and show up at HQ tomorrow, or you’ll have just proved right everything that your fucking psych evaluation says. And something tells me that half of the reasons you’re actually here is that you want to prove it wrong.”

He holds Mason’s stare if only because if he doesn’t then this will have been the worst pep talk in existence, and the thing is that the kid is suave as fuck when stealing and a complete disaster at hiding his emotions when he’s had alcohol (he’s bad usually, but if he’s drunk something it’s just embarrassing), and he has a face that screams _I do want to prove it wrong but this might be the first time someone tells me that if I fucked something up it’s not the end of the world_ , which –

Briar really needs more alcohol if he wants to properly address that. He sincerely hopes Mason won’t.

For a moment it looks like he’s about to say something, then he finishes his glass and asks for a refill.

When they leave, Briar doesn’t tell him to show up at HQ tomorrow. He honestly doesn’t know what he’s going to find out tomorrow – a part of him is saying that if he does leave then good riddance, he doesn’t need _quitters_ for partners if he has to have any, but on the other side he doesn’t want to admit to himself that if Mason _really_ did quit he’d be disappointed, and not just _in_ Mason, but –

He’s absolutely _not_ going to state at any point that he’d miss the kid, because that’s _not_ how this job works and it’s already enough when good agents he’s more or less cordial-ish with die during a mission. He doesn’t need _that_ kind of attachment.

So he goes to sleep telling himself that whatever happens tomorrow he won’t care. Honest. He won’t.

And still, he can’t help it – his chest is maybe feeling a bit tighter than usual as he heads to HQ, and maybe he thinks _the motherfucker better show up_ as he parks his car, and maybe the moment he walks up the stairs and sees Mason standing outside his office he feels –

He doesn’t want to say _relieved_ , but still.

“Have you even slept tonight or what,” Briar asks the moment he notices that Mason’s eyes are so bloodshot they’re almost as red as his hair, never mind that he still has yesterday’s clothes on. Mason shrugs.

“I was this close to packing my stuff and booking a train to London,” he admits. “And then – then I figured I had to stop running at some point. Especially since I wouldn’t want you after me a second time.”

“Who says I’d have given you that much importance?” Briar asks, and he doesn’t know how he manages to keep his tone even – like hell he wants to _sound_ relieved in front of Mason.

Mason looks at him like he’s a complete idiot. “As if you wouldn’t have. My masochism has limits.”

Briar _does_ roll his eyes at that. He hopes that Mason doesn’t notice that his shoulders have sagged down a bit. “Good to know that. Come on, just get the hell in. Hopefully next time round isn’t going to be a clusterfuck from the beginning.”

Mason follows him when Briar opens the office, even if he’s kind of swaying on his feet – well, if _he didn’t get any sleep_.

Christ, the things he does for –

“Oh, fuck’s sake, just take your shoes off and sleep it off,” Briar tells him, nodding towards the old sofa at the other side of the room – at least they gave him a decent office when they transferred him to the Paris HQ.

“What? No, if we get called in –”

“If we do I’m waking you up. You can’t even stand up, just do it.”

No one should look that thankful when you tell them to sleep on your office’s old sofa which is probably not even large enough for them.

“Okay. Thanks, uh, I –”

“No need for all of that. Just do it before you collapse.”

It’s telling that the moment Mason actually kicks off his shoes and lies down he passes out in the time it takes Briar to take off his own shirt and turn on the computer – shit, he really must have been exhausted.

So maybe Briar grabs his jacket again, moves closer to the sofa and drapes it over the kid before going back to his desk, and if he glances at the back of the room once in a while as he checks his e-mail and goes over yesterday’s paperwork, well, no one has to know.

 

End.


End file.
